Love Is Like a Sin
by KateRobin
Summary: "One day she realized that hoping didn't make it better. Hope was the poison." A broken, angst-ridden Molly has to deal with two dead men in her life, and a third one who has lost everything. WIP. Post-Reichenbach, spoilery. Sherlolly in future chapters.
1. And Then, Excuse From Pain

Molly could never have Sherlock and it hurt. The sense of loss was strange, ridiculous even, and yet she felt it poison her entire life. There was her favourite café where he would never take her for a coffee. The park where they would never stroll, casually nudging each other and smiling. Her old sofa where he would never put his head in her lap and let her run her hands through his curls. The lab where he would never sweep in just to say hello and give her a kiss. It was all too far-fetched, of course. She didn't know him well, but well enough to surmise that much. He would never stoop so low, even for her. Especially for her.

Her life seemed made up of impossible moments. It hurt and she drowned herself in work and wine. Until one day she realized that hoping didn't make it better. Hope was the poison. She would get rid of it.

Molly could never have him and it was fine. She went dancing on Saturdays, got a cat, started a blog, and changed her hair. She still helped Sherlock though, because no one else would. She was still his friend. She felt obliged. And it was a challenge, to see how loyal she could be to someone so decidedly lofty and unreachable. But now there was a certain reassurance. Stability. Things would never change, and it was oddly comforting.

She felt different, inside. Every moment with him had a distant quality, as if she watched someone else stammer and stumble around him, flustered and distraught. She didn't want to be that person anymore. But old habits die hard. Her body longed for the frenzy, the rush of blood to her head, the sheer excitement of it when he feigned interest and made her compliments. She gave in.

Molly could never have him and it felt good. For a while it even felt great, when there was Jim and frantic dancing in nightclubs and the dizzy feeling when he bit her lower lip and shared cigarettes with her afterwards. But, of course, good things never lasted.

Finding out about Jim – no, _Moriarty_ - was probably the hardest part. Suddenly the world seemed twisted and wrong. She was sick and miserable and even wanted to die at some point. The memories were still too bright, too vivid, and she couldn't let go. Eventually though, she did, and disposed of everything that reminded her of those three short weeks. Too bad that she couldn't actually dispose of Sherlock. There was too much likeness in him, and sickened her, again.

Life went on, but it didn't. Sherlock still came and went, and she still indulged him. The world seemed more pointless than ever, but she didn't mind. It was so much easier, not caring about things as devotedly as she'd used to. She went to the 221B Christmas party for fun, where he ended up humiliating her, and she discarded her shyness to stand up to him. Surprisingly enough, he apologized and it stunned her for a moment. But nothing followed, so she let it go.

Being less emotional had its perks, Molly realized. She could mould herself into anything she wanted to be. She could be caring, and strong, and not give a damn. And she learned to see things, to read people. She understood the point of it now, the clarity of view you could achieve. But she still had her weak points. She probably always would.

Molly could see straight through Sherlock now, and it was a mistake to tell him. She had buried all hope, but when she saw him, dying, dying, dying, the treacherous thing stirred and knocked the wind out of her. He was dying, and suddenly she cared, and she had to tell him. The whole incident felt like a farce, and she regretted every single word. She ran and expected him to forget it.

Only he didn't. He came back, haunted and desperate, and she didn't find it in herself to refuse. How easy it was, how deliciously simple and stupid, to fall for it again. "You do count". It felt earnest, for a change, and she broke. That's all it took, not a question, not a plea, not even a promise. "You do count," and she was ready to give up the world for him. And she did.

He was dying, and maybe if she helped him, she would receive her absolution.


	2. So Little Left To Give

A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews, **Petra Todd**, **ariadnekb** and **dinosoprano**! And to all those who favourited and subscribed to the story too! I'm most positively flattered. :)

This chapter has more plot than the first, but not much action. Also, loads of flashbacks. If you find anything out of place, don't hesitate to tell me!

It might take me quite a while to write the 3rd chapter because I have exams coming up. But I will give it my best shot, I promise!

* * *

_A couple of weeks, Sherlock said. Until the media hype died down. Until everyone believed he was gone, truly gone. Until he recovered._

_Molly just nodded. Oh, stupid, stupid girl. _

She smuggled him out after dusk, when the police had finished investigating and gave everyone permission to go. He left behind his trademark coat and changed into a hoodie and trainers. As he was getting ready, she stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. For some reason she felt that she couldn't read him anymore. Her mind was clouded, again. But she thought - just for a brief moment - that she saw his hands linger on the blood-stained fabric as he put it down.

Sleep eluded her on the first night. Molly couldn't stand having someone else in her flat who was awake. She had a sixth sense for that. He didn't make any noise, and yet she could picture him, lying in her spare room, staring at the dark, just like she did. The crucial difference, though: he was dead and she was alive. Or so she thought.

The first days were the hardest. They carefully circled around each other through Molly's tiny flat, not touching, barely even talking. He felt like a splinter in her private little world which she didn't like to share. The presence of someone of Sherlock's size and ego reduced it to a mere bubble of air. She had never been claustrophobic before. But he could not leave, not yet.

For all his aloof manners and habits, Sherlock had a sense of respect, or something resembling respect. He stared too much, of course; he moved her things around and messed up her kitchen, but he didn't ask questions. He seemed withdrawn, more than ever, and lacking his usual vitality. It was disconcerting to watch him. Molly couldn't quite put her finger on it. Was he mourning? Was he missing his freedom? Was he in pain? She couldn't tell anymore.

But she returned the sentiment of respect. She would not intrude, for his sake and her own.

Yet Molly didn't know what to do with herself. After the incident she took a week off, under the pretence of being sick. She might as well have been. But she couldn't bear to see anyone.

There would be condescending pats on the shoulder, awkward hugs, murmured apologies and insincere offers of help. Molly had had her share of it years ago. And she didn't even deserve any of it now. But when there was no way to avoid talking, she could always pretend. She became quite good at it. Switching into past tense was uncomfortable at first, but it grew easier. As if she could make herself believe it.

Molly longed to get away somewhere, to clear her head. But apparently they were both still in danger. _She was not to disrupt the disguise._ She sighed and took refuge in mindless afternoon TV.

She kept asking herself how she felt now, but found no answer. He was there, close enough to reach out and touch, but did she want it? Did she want _him_? She hesitated to give herself a definite answer. It was all too sudden, too fresh. It would break everything she had accomplished. Hesitating seemed the best option, for now.

There were more investigations, naturally. Inspector Lestrade made a point of interviewing her himself, to make it easier for her, he said. They'd never been friends, not really, just colleagues. He'd invited her out for coffee once, sometime after Christmas, but she couldn't go. He never asked her again.

Scotland Yard had quite the reputation when it came to hospitality, or rather the lack of it. No one except Lestrade even bothered to acknowledge her presence.

She crossed her arms and cursed her chair. Lestrade fumbled with his shirt absentmindedly. A button had come off on his left sleeve. He was feigning some sort of calmness. But she saw the signs of exasperation around his eyes. She knew he was going through a divorce. But it was clearly more than just that. _**Guilt**_. That's what most people felt.

* * *

_Molly remembered John's face, when he'd just recovered from the shock and stormed into the mortuary, right after she was finished with the "autopsy". He demanded to see him. She refused, as gently as she could. Taking his hand in her shivering ones, she told him that it was certain, it was absolutely certain, and nothing could have been done. John looked stoic as ever, except for the downright crushed look in his eyes. Guilt, guilt, guilt. _I could have saved him. I should have.

_That was when she broke, again. Her tears came fast and violently. She made up some excuse and locked herself in her office, sobbing into her coat. She cried, because she could, because people knew all about her and Sherlock, and they wouldn't think anything was out of place. She had her right to mourn. Who or what she was mourning didn't matter. She couldn't even say for certain. _

_When she finally composed herself, she avoided all human contact for a few days. Sherlock's presence in her flat barely counted as human._

* * *

_But the odds were against her. _It was imperative that she go to 221B and retrieve some of Sherlock's possessions, as there was no one else to do the job.

_Mrs Hudson, with the same weary, guilt-ridden look on her face, offered her a cup of tea, but Molly refused, politely, shifting on the edge of her seat. John was gone, the landlady told her, and he wouldn't come round unless it was really necessary. She was wearing a cardigan, clearly out of fashion but cherished for some reason, with a hole on the right shoulder. It had been mended, but Molly saw that the threads were just a shade too light. The woman looked older, and more fragile, for all her youthful demeanour. _

_Sensing an awkward pause, Molly muttered that'd loaned a book to Sherlock, and would Mrs Hudson mind if she went there on her own to find it? The reply was positive, and she sprinted upstairs. _

_The disguise kit was under the bed, as Sherlock had told her, but most of the things from his shelves and makeshift laboratory had already been stowed away in moving boxes. It took her a while to spot the laptop, the pen knife and the camera phone she recognized from last year's case. She silently thanked whoever was responsible for the latest trend in massive tote bags. _

_Taking one last look at the flat, she noticed dust particles settling over all the surfaces. The air had a stagnating quality already. It felt like watching a dying creature, humming with energy one moment, and breaking apart the next. All of a sudden, she felt guilty too. She turned around and ran._

_It was cruel to Mrs Hudson, sneaking out without so much as a goodbye. But another breakdown would have crushed whatever was left of her self-control. She still needed it._

* * *

Now Molly's body was betraying her again. She felt nausea rising in her chest and breathed deeply, in and out. Lestrade threw her a worried look and she feigned a little smile. It seemed convincing enough. He went through his questions again. No, she hadn't seen him since the kidnapping case. No, he hadn't contacted her. No, he hadn't looked suspicious or depressive. Yes, she was certain.

He leaned back in his seat and cleared his throat. "Do you believe the story?"

Molly tensed up. "What story?"

"That he was real? This Moriarty person?"

She pondered for a moment. Would it help Lestrade feel less guilty if she told him he was – or had been - real? That she had touched him, kissed him, and almost fallen for him, before he dashed her world into smithereens? Or would it make him feel all the more responsible for what happened?

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"I guess we'll never know now." Lestrade sighed. "That actor bloke, Richard Brook, he disappeared. His girlfriend, the journalist, reported him missing a couple of days ago, just after the, erm… incident. We'd hoped he could... clarify some things. Now we can't do anything unless he turns up."

* * *

_Molly knew, of course. She'd seen it, his body, before it was wheeled out of the morgue by men in black suits. MI5, she assumed. She was given clearance to look and even touch, if she wanted to. But looking was enough. If anyone could tell a real corpse from a fake one, it was her. He was gone, utterly and completely, and she felt just a tiny bit euphoric._

_The papers said nothing about a second death, and she understood and kept quiet._

* * *

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Molly sighed and rose. "Is that all, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade looked up at her, as if surprised that she was still there. It took him a moment to reply. "Yeah, I suppose so. You understand that if anything new comes up, I might ask you to come here again?"

There were dark rings under his eyes, presumably from lack of sleep. His hands, steepled under his chin, were tanned, except for a thin light stripe on his ring finger. Molly wondered for a moment whether he was still living with his wife, and decided that she'd rather not know.

She nodded and left, as nonchalantly as she could.


	3. But Do It With Sincerity

A/N: Well, I did say I would take my time, but my muse wouldn't let me sleep. Writing shall be the end of me, but I don't mind, really. :D

A huge thank you goes to **briongloid fiodoir** and **Hellscrimsonangel** for their reviews, and also to the many new subscribers. I love y'all!

Please don't hesitate to review, if you haven't yet! I would appreciate any kind of feedback, be it positive or negative.

This one is more of a dialogue/relationshippy chapter. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Two weeks in, Sherlock was still there. Molly expected, even hoped, that he would be gone when he recovered. But he didn't seem bothered to move. Of course - he was comfortable and safe enough, and he had someone running errands for him. How convenient. Only, she'd like her life back, please.

He began to go out at the same time as Molly returned to work. She wondered if he ever followed her, hidden in the crowd behind his ever-changing disguise. But he probably didn't. _He had more important business._ He never talked about it, but he brought back tissue samples, all sorts of odd personal items and even parts of a gun once. She reluctantly took them to St. Bart's to analyse and dust for fingerprints. He would have preferred her to move the lab to her flat, but she simply pointed out the impracticality of it. He complied, for once. Stealing body parts was one thing, but she couldn't steal a laboratory.

The spider was dead, but the web remained, as functional as ever. Molly had a very vague notion of the criminal world, but she knew its workings through the countless bodies she had opened: shot, stabbed, mutilated and scorched beyond recognition. How many of her patients were courtesy of the criminal mastermind and his henchmen? How many of his victims ended in other mortuaries? How many were still undiscovered and how many never would be? The thought alone gave her chills. Only now did the full extent of Jim's – _Moriarty's_ – influence begin to dawn on her.

Molly grew worried and made a habit of staying up when Sherlock didn't come home after dark. It must have seemed whimsical to him, but she didn't care. He shot her odd looks, but thankfully never said anything. He owed her that much. She was grateful, and yet she missed his sarcastic comments and lectures, his showing off and confident smiles. Something told Molly that he might never be the same, even after everything was over, and she hated it.

One evening she fell asleep on the sofa to the half-muted noise of the television. Just before dozing off she thought that Sherlock had never been so late, and perhaps she should call him. But her body protested and she closed her eyes, letting the TV lull her to sleep.

Molly woke from the sensation of being grabbed and dragged somewhere. Panicking, she struck out blindly, ready to defend herself with teeth and claws if necessary. The attacker cursed and nearly dropped her, but eventually managed to let her down carefully. Sleepy and confused, she didn't recognize him and lashed out again, so he grabbed her by the wrists and softly rubbed her palms with his thumbs.

"Calm down, Molly. It's me."

Sherlock's voice brought her back with a start. For a second Molly thought she might burst into tears from relief; but she remembered her resolve not to cry in front of other people, so she took a few deep breaths and allowed herself to relax. But her voice still quivered a little.

"I thought it was him… or someone who works for him. I dream sometimes that… that he's still out there, hunting for me… and for you… and I feel so helpless and scared." She gave a bitter laugh. "I've even thought of taking self-defence lessons or something, but I'd probably be rubbish anyway."

"I don't see why you should be so critical of yourself, Molly. You have got excellent reflexes. With some training, you might be able to take on even someone more agile and robust than yourself."

Did he just chuckle? Molly wasn't sure. "_Might._ That's very promising. Like anyone is going to be scared of me."

The ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "You have the element of surprise on your side. No one would think you a fighter, yet you are one."

Molly snorted. "And how did you deduce that? Pray tell."

"You have given me all the proof I needed four minutes ago."

In spite of herself, her lips curled into a small smile. It felt almost like a compliment. "Right."

After a few moments of silence, she realized that he was still holding her wrists and pulled them out of his grasp in one quick motion. His fingers had left faint marks that were already fading away, albeit slowly. They would transform into little bruises by tomorrow morning. She rubbed the marks gently and contemplated that she would have to wear a long-sleeved shirt to work.

"I've hurt you."

Molly raised her gaze and caught Sherlock staring at her, his eyes wide and almost vulnerable. She hadn't expected that. And then she realized - he didn't just mean this. He meant _everything_. It must have cost him an effort to concede that much. But somehow it wasn't enough. A couple of words weren't enough for her anymore.

She stared back at him, defiantly. "Yes."

He averted his eyes, as if to escape the scorn blazing from hers. "I'm sorry."

Oh please, not that routine again. This was getting old. "_Are _you now?"

It was his turn to look surprised. "I am. Why would I lie to you about it, Molly?"

"Because that's what you do. You lie to everyone, to get what you want. I should know, of all people."

He pondered for a moment. "What would I gain from pretending to apologize to you?"

"You tell me, mastermind."

She thought she saw him cringe at the word. "People usually expect forgiveness for some wrongdoing in the past, sometimes with the intention of asking a favour."

Molly rolled her eyes at him. "Here we are again. What do you need this time?"

"I did not say that I was asking for a favour, Molly."

"No? That's strange. Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

His face fell, almost imperceptibly, and Molly realized - too late – what she had done. He was clinging on to his old self, as hard he could, and she'd just broken one of his few straws. He was mourning not only the loss of his former life and friends, but also the loss of Sherlock Holmes, the man before the fall.

Her mother had done the same, after her father's death. She'd lost all of her trademark cheerfulness and joy, and she couldn't bear it. She was never the same, and it broke Molly's heart in the end.

She gave a desperate little sigh and was about to say something apologetic, when Sherlock's gaze met hers. His eyes shone coldly as steel, despite his contact lenses in warm hazel brown. His look made her shiver and shrink back from him.

"I think I might ask you the same question, Molly. You _**are**_ different."

Was he disappointed or intrigued? She couldn't say. But it definitely sounded as if he'd been figuring her out, and now he had some sort of confirmation.

When Molly gave no reply, Sherlock made toward the door of his room. Just before entering, he turned around and cleared his throat. "If you want me to go, I will go. It would be safer for both of us if I stayed, but I don't wish to make it difficult for you. You…" His voice faltered for a moment, and she looked at him in disbelief. "You have made exceptional sacrifices, more than I asked for."

Molly tried to take in everything he said, but the thoughts slipped from her. It was too much, and she was tired and still shivering a little. She clung to the phrase that didn't make sense. "Why would it be safer?"

"I can't tell you. Yet."

She wanted to ask why, but surmised that it would be pointless. "When?"

"When I am certain that everyone is safe."

Sherlock was closing the door when Molly rose and walked over to him, halting only a few inches away. "Sherlock… I'm sorry. I truly am." She stretched out her hand, daringly, and let her fingertips graze his cheek, past the false beard. He flinched, but didn't shrink away. She imagined that his eyes looked warmer and softer, somehow, but it could have been the contact lenses. But his voice sounded softer, too.

"Apology accepted. If you accept mine."

Molly contemplated for a second, and decided to be honest. "I don't know if I can… yet. It's difficult."

"I understand."

She gave him a shy smile, suddenly aware how tired and unconvincing she must look. But the corners of his mouth jerked upward a little, in reciprocation. It stirred something inside her, something familiar and dreadful. But before the emotion could overtake her, she nodded and withdrew her hand, moving away from him.

Molly was halfway in her room when it struck her that she hadn't replied to one of his questions, maybe the most important one. She turned and called, in a half-whisper: "Sherlock?"

The reply was an equally half-whispered "Yes?"

She hesitated, but let the newborn feeling decide anyway. She could regret it later, if need be.

"Stay."


	4. Shut Her Wild, Wild Eyes

A/: A great many thanks to **Nocturnias** (who, IMO, is one of the best fanfic writers out there, which makes me fell all the more honoured) and **Hellscrimsonangel** for their lovely reviews. And the new subscribers, of course!

This chapter has some violent images, so consider yourself warned. It's still dark and angsty, and it's about to get really emotional.

Expect the next chapter sometime next week!

* * *

_Molly didn't remember coming here before. It was dark and daunting all around her, except for a hazy beam of light from a lantern in the ceiling. She stepped forward carefully, reaching out for something solid with her hands. Suddenly someone lunged at her out of the dark and everything broke into fragments. Hands and fists, bruising her arms and face, making her scream until she was hoarse… Dozens of dead bodies on the floor, and blood on her hands - and she tried to wash it off, but it clung to her skin like a stigma… And then, that whisper, with a soft Irish lilt, taunting her until she lashed out at the dark… But she missed, and two hands pushed her over the edge. She fell into the dark, for what seemed like an eternity, every second longer and more dreadful than the previous one, until she heard the sound of impact. Arteries collapsing, bones breaking, air rushing out of the punctured lungs… and the pavement was crimson with _her _blood._

Molly woke with a start, the images still lingering behind her eyelids. She realized that she was holding her breath, and let it out with a ragged gasp. Her hands were trembling, so she clutched at the sheets to calm herself down, rocking a little. Third night and counting. She was almost desperate and positively frightened. But she didn't want Sherlock to know. What would be the point? And besides, if she really was the fighter he considered her to be, she would find a way to overcome it.

Still, the threat was there. She had to live with two dead men now - one haunting her flat, the other haunting her life, pervading London, _her_ London. Molly imagined that she spotted strangers watching her in the street, their faces blank, just staring at her. She would hear his steps behind her, clicking the heel harder on the third step, just as he used to. As though someone wanted to make sure she didn't forget. But she could be wrong, of course.

Except that the roses she found in the lab every morning were real.

Sherlock was still figuring it out. The security cameras showed nothing, and the roses themselves were free of any obvious traces. She checked three times. Molly's secret admirer clearly intended to demonstrate his skill and her vulnerability. The extra security men were no help at all. He came and went unseen, like a shadow, like a ghost. Thinking about him – whoever he was – gave her chills.

But Molly continued to go to work, because she was needed, and not just by Mike Stamford. Sherlock wasn't eating again. She didn't want him to fall ill. So she ran more tests, checked the samples again and again, in the hope of finding something that would make his eyes light up with enthusiasm and anticipation, like a hungry cat that spies its prey. She hadn't seen that look for a long time. She missed it.

Accordingly to plan, Molly would analyse the roses for specific chemicals tomorrow – she glanced at the clock - well, technically, today. And then… she didn't know what would happen then. Sherlock still refused to let her in on the issue. She would have to trust him.

Fighting the urge to curl up and go back to sleep, for fear of another nightmare, Molly rose and pulled on a dressing gown. A cup of coffee should do the trick.

She was staring out the window, absentmindedly twiddling the curtains with her fingers, when the kettle whistled gently and pulled her out of the reverie. The smell of coffee – instant coffee though it was – delighted her. Sherlock loathed it. He would take nothing but proper arabica. 'Posh stuff', her father used to call it. It was also the word practically everyone used to describe Sherlock.

Some of his habits made Molly curious of his life before he became consulting detective. He probably knew all about her childhood and upbringing by now; she didn't have an inkling of his. A really posh family, she guessed, maybe even nobility? But she couldn't say what such families looked like up close. How did they bring up their kids? Did they take him to zoos, parks, playgrounds, like other families did? What sort of toys did he get for Christmas? What did he dream of when he was little? Somehow, Molly thought that it couldn't have been too idyllic.

Then - speak of the devil - the man himself appeared out of thin air with a soft "Molly." He startled her enough to make her trip and sweep her mug off the table. The hot liquid spilled over the floor, making a little lake around the shards.

Molly could have punched him on the spot. "Sherlock! That was my favourite mug!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Emotional attachment to chinaware is understandable, but extremely illogical, Molly. The quality of the mug cannot influence its contents."

"What is it with you and logic?" Molly had to try very hard not to shout the words. She scrambled down to pick up the pieces.

"Logic is a useful asset. But I assume your question was rather rhetorical."

She felt like fuming, but realized that it would only aggravate her state. "Stop mocking me and give me a hand here, Mister Spock."

He wrinkled his nose but obliged, reluctantly, throwing away the shards. Molly sponged up the coffee and leaned against the counter for a moment, to pull herself together. His gaze skimmed over her, his head tilting a little. It made her feel exposed. She looked away and took a seat. When he turned to face her, she had leaned her head on her arm, on the brink of falling asleep again.

Sherlock smirked. "I see. The coffee. I would have suggested tea as a means of staying awake. It contains significantly more caffeine than _that_." He half-pointed to the instant coffee package, disdainfully.

"Yes." Molly was suddenly too tired to argue.

"But I think you need to rest. You have not been sleeping for several days." When she shook her head, ever so slightly, his voice grew menacing. "Don't even attempt to lie to me. I would consider it as an insult."

There seemed to be no point in pretending now. "I can't sleep. It's been getting worse ever since…" She sighed. "I keep telling myself that it's going to be alright, but… but… I can't make myself believe it."

Sherlock was silent, gazing somewhere past her shoulder. She continued. "Sometimes… I know it's not a fair thing to say, but sometimes… I wish… I hadn't gotten involved. Not knowing things makes it so much easier."

Sherlock's voice was stern. "Without your involvement I would not be alive, Molly, and neither would several other people." He seemed to hesitate before he spoke again. "You may not tolerate me well at the moment, but in the long run my continued existence should prove beneficial, I hope."

"Why are you being so nice to me? You haven't said one rude thing to me since the… the incident. Well, maybe two or three, but that hardly counts. And you apologized. You're never nice to people for no reason."

"As you have pointed out a few days ago, I have undergone a change. People do that."

"You're not people."

"True." He steepled his hands under his chin. "Considering the situation, I thought it would be appropriate to demonstrate some sort of… sensitivity. Speaking of which," – he rose and stretched out a hand to Molly – "you are going to bed."

A saucy remark along the lines of 'Are you asking?' almost fell from Molly's lips, before she collected herself. "I told you I can't. Please don't make me. It's horrible enough to get those damned roses every day."

He raised an eyebrow. "In any other case I would suggest you visit a therapist to take care of your mental state, but we can't risk that with your tendency of giving things away."

"I wouldn't –"

"Molly, you may have developed some ability to conceal things, but any therapist will see through you, despite their general stupidity."

She couldn't hold it anymore. "Sherlock, I'm frightened! Okay? I'm a stupid little person and I'm frightened. I just can't help it." Her body shook with little sobs now. "You know what it feels like to fall. You did it, and I watched you, and it hurt, even though it was you who fell and not me. But in my dreams _I _am the one falling, every time. I just want it to stop."

His voice was quiet. "You think I don't?"

Molly stared at him in disbelief. "How are _you_ coping? You don't look the worse for wear."

"I work. I don't sleep."

"Then I won't sleep either."

"My body works differently. I can go for days without sleep, but you need it. You can't neglect yourself. Don't you understand how much depends on you, Molly?"

She felt like a thoroughly chastised child. "Yes, but… alright. I'll go in a minute."

"No. _Now_, Molly. You've still got 4 hours."

"Alright, alright. I'm going!" Molly hesitantly made for her room, Sherlock following suit. She was about to close the door behind her when he stepped in after her, immediately making her room shrink in size. Suddenly she felt uneasy.

As if reading her thoughts, he took a step back. "I only want to make sure you sleep well."

Molly snorted, and cringed inwardly how undignified she must sound. "How? By tucking me in?"

"If that is what you want."

She couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Go on then." She dropped the dressing gown on a chair and climbed into bed, a little self-consciously. He didn't approach her. She realized he waited for her, and gave him a little nod.

Sherlock's hands smoothed the fabric of the duvet, ghosting over her legs, before he reached over her to tuck in the sides, checking for symmetry. Then he closed in on her, lightly grazing her bare arms with his fingertips, and she shivered despite herself. One of his hands lingered on her left shoulder.

She shot him a questioning look - and saw him laid bare for an instant, lost and lonely and heartbreakingly hopeless. He was reaching out for her, without wanting to tell her. Her breath caught. And in that moment she knew that she would do anything. Touch him, hold him close, warm him up, to try and fill his emptiness. Save him. Love him. She had never felt so aching and desperate for someone.

He must have read it in her face, because he began to withdraw his hand. On an impulse, she held it in place with her own. Her breath came quicker now. An uncertain look ghosted over his eyes.

"Molly, I don't think – "

"Just hold me. Please."

"Molly – "

"Please."

Molly thought she heard him sigh, maybe in frustration, but he complied, settling down on the very edge of the bed. She leaned against him, slowly, and wound her arms around his slender chest. Her stomach did a few somersaults as she breathed him in, spearmint and ice and overwhelming masculine scent, but it stilled after a minute. An unexpected calmness settled over her, and she closed her eyes, revelling in the warmth of his skin as his arms closed around her hesitantly.

Safe. She had missed the feeling. His breath came in the same rhythm as hers, almost lulling her to sleep, but not quite.

She heard him breathe in, ready to say something, and waited for it – and then the phone rang.

Sherlock disentangled himself from her and reached for the receiver on the nightstand, handing it to Molly. She cleared her throat and pushed the button.

"Yes?"

The voice at the other end had a hint of panic about it. "Molly dear, is that you? It's Mrs Hudson. I'm terribly sorry, such an ungodly hour, but I didn't know who else to call."

Molly's heart sank, but she kept her voice steady. "Mrs Hudson, please calm down. What's happened? Are you alright?"

"Yes, it's not me… it's… it's John."


	5. Bones Sinking Like Stones

Many great thanks to my wonderful reviewers Nocturnias, conchepcion, CumberChelz, Petra Todd, PurpleYin, Araminta18 and Hellscrimsonangel! You all really moved me with your kind words. :)

This chapter contains some violence, implicit and explicit, swearing and angst. Ye be warned.

It will take me a while to write the next one, because I'm going home for spring holidays, and I have to prepare for exams as well, so be patient, me hearties.

As always, thank you for whatever feedback you leave! ;)

* * *

Molly arrived at 221B breathless, heart thumping wildly from both running and anxiety. The night bus – the only one she was able to catch - had deposited her several blocks away from the flat. She leaned against the dark wood of the front door for a moment, cooling her forehead.

She had some idea of what she would find inside, but still felt unprepared to confront it. _Him._ _John._

They had never been close. They just happened to stumble around the edges of each other's lives, not going farther than some casual words about work, about their families. About Sherlock. He seemed the only constant they shared, albeit in different ways. To her knowledge, Sherlock had never had a companion, and Molly had secretly longed to fill that void. But then John came along and she knew, instinctively, that she could never have accomplished that. She envied him a little, but not for long. There seemed nothing to be jealous about after she had given up on Sherlock.

The loss must have hit John far worse than others, infinitely worse than her. From what she knew, he had an alcoholic sister and only a handful of close friends. Sherlock would have been the closest of all. She understood. Her father used to be hers. She remembered that loss all too well, and how she had to console her devastated mother despite being heartbroken herself.

And here she was, in the very same situation again, and yet with a greater challenge. She had to incarnate the epitome of neighbourly love and the cruellest of deceptions at the same time. It was incredible, even to herself, how she'd managed a transformation of this magnitude. She felt a little sick.

Being good at lying didn't necessarily mean you had to like it.

Why Mrs Hudson had called _her_ of all people, she didn't fully understand. There was Lestrade and Scotland Yard, John's other friends, and even his sister. _Why her?_

Molly had her theories. Because Lestrade was at his wife's place again? Because Harriet was drunk and unreachable? And because she was the nice, sweet, reliable Molly, ready to come at the ungodliest hour? Yes, the hypothesis seemed sound enough.

Come to think of it, she would have given a lot to have that sweetness again, at least for that moment. The old Molly would try to help without doubts or second thoughts, without lying to everyone and – most importantly – herself. The old Molly loved to be needed. The new Molly didn't quite know what she loved. Some spark of her old self was still there, but it would take something extreme to drive her out.

Would _this_ be extreme enough? Molly both hoped and feared that it would.

Gingerly, she knocked. A series of staccato steps approached the door, before Mrs Hudson swung it open and rushed Molly in. Her features had sunk even more since Molly had seen her last, casting severe shadows across her face.

She chose not to waste any time. "Where is he?"

Mrs Hudson nodded in the direction of the upstairs flat. Molly hurried, taking two steps at once.

The living room welcomed her with silence and darkness. It receded a little when her eyes adjusted. She saw vague outlines of the moving boxes on the chairs and the coffee table, still untouched, and manoeuvred her way around them. The smell of dust hung in the air, along with something chemical. Wrong. Something felt wrong about this.

She heard someone breathing, almost inaudibly, in the farthest corner by the window, behind Sherlock's old chair. Molly closed the distance in a few hesitant steps. On the last step her foot stumbled over something and the object broke with a crunching noise. The figure by the window jumped up, and pointed one of its hands at her. Molly recognized the silhouette. So John had kept his gun.

She shivered, but forced herself to be calm. "John, please put it down. It's me, Molly."

When a second hand joined the first on the handle of the gun, her lower lip began to tremble. She bit it. "John, I'm not going to harm you. I don't have any weapons. I can show you. Just… look, let me turn the lights on, alright?"

"Go on then."

Oh dear god. His voice was shaking with fury, words slightly slurred, vocals pitched much higher than usual. Molly desperately tried to remember her short-lived take on psychology. So according to the classic model, he seemed to have overcome denial, but not gotten beyond anger, which explained some things. Would he even be willing to talk at this point? She had no idea.

This would be far more difficult than she expected.

She backed away from him towards the switch, keeping her eyes fixed on his outline. When the light spilled across the room and she took in the state of it, she could not suppress a small sound of shock. The boxes were untouched, but their contents – Petri dishes, vials, various laboratory equipment, books and pieces of clothing – had been strewn and smashed all around the room. Some of the clothes had apparently muffled her steps as she entered. John stood amidst the chaos with a defiant look, gun still pointed at Molly. She noticed his crumpled shirt, stubbled face and a faint smell of alcohol. Not good.

She moved towards him, shedding her jacket and showing him her open palms. "See? No weapons. Now please, put it down."

"Why should I take orders from you?"

"Because I'm your friend. I want to help you." She hated how squeaky her voice sounded all of a sudden, but it was probably for the best.

He laughed bitterly. "Friend? Help me? Tell me, Molly, how many times have you actually bothered to call and offer help? Friend indeed."

"I needed time to cope, John. I couldn't… But I wanted to call, I swear…"

"Right. Coped really well, didn't you? You don't exactly look like you're grieving."

For a moment, she was almost at a loss for words. "Believe me, it's been hard. But he mattered to me too, you know. I lost him, too. I understand." And she didn't even have to lie. She _had _lost him… some of him.

"Really? Well, everyone knew you had a thing for him, but you make it sound like you were close. And I know for a fact you weren't." He spit the words out like poison. They even hurt like poison. "Have you come here to mock me then?"

"No, of course not! I just want to help." She ventured a few steps forward. "I know what it feels like. I have lost people before."

"You could be lying. You could be lying about everything. Why should I trust you?"

Dumbfounded, she had no reply. She desperately wanted to say "because _**he**_ did", but John wouldn't believe her. He would ask for proof, and she could give him nothing.

John must have noticed her insecurity, because he grabbed the gun tighter and moved towards her.

"There's a funny thing I remember, Molly. Moriarty, with all his connections… he could have chosen anyone to get to Sherlock. Any of the Scotland Yard officers, maybe even Mrs Hudson or me. But he went for you instead. Am I'm wondering, why did he do that?"

She shrank back, further and further, until she almost stumbled over the coffee table.

"See, Molly, you could still be spying for him." His voice grew rough and angry. "You could have forced Sherlock to jump, for all I know. So why should I trust you?"

Molly felt hollow and helpless. She had not expected this. Her thoughts raced, looking for some sort of escape, a solution, proof of her innocence. There was nothing. He would not believe her, no matter what she said. She was at his mercy, and he would have none for her.

But some sort of defence mechanism must have kicked in, because her eyes felt sore and tears obscured her view for a moment. As if something as simple as tears was going to stop his rage.

Still, it seemed to work. He was no longer cornering her, but kept his hand firmly in the air. The gun hung inches away from her head.

_Tell him what you feel_, her gut feeling told her. _Go for the truth._ "What do you want me to say? That I feel guilty? I admit it, I do. Everyone does."

John almost snorted at that, but she kept going. "Believe me, you're not alone in this. You're not the only one who…" – No, there was no other word for it. She had to say it. -"… loved him. I would have given anything to save him, and I know that you would too."

John's mouth twitched a little and Molly thought she saw the gun sinking lower, just a fraction. But he looked resolute still. "What about Moriarty then? You two seemed nicely paired up."

A memory suddenly came to her mind, Jim pulling at her hair, on their second night. "For fun", he'd said, and pulled tighter, bringing tears to her eyes. "Good girl", he whispered. "_**Nice girl**_".

Disgust welled up in her chest. She couldn't stop herself from bursting out. Her voice broke.

"Nice? You think it was _nice_? Jim only ever wanted to get to Sherlock. He fucked me, and then he threw me away like a piece of trash! I was just… collateral damage." Suddenly, her legs gave out, and she sank gracelessly onto the coffee table. "He messed up my life! You think that made me feel _nice_? If you honestly think I would work for that _monster_... then you don't know me at all."

Then, there was a warm hand grabbing her elbow, pulling her up, and Molly found herself on the sofa, now freed from the boxes. The gun was gone. He kneeled in front of her, eyes lowered, features somewhat softened by remorse. He was an easy man to read. She shrank away all the same.

John sighed. "Look… I'm sorry, Molly. I am. I didn't know. It's no excuse, of course, but… ever since he's… "

He swallowed, hard. His hands hid his face for a moment. "I've been going through everything in my head, every moment, every detail, looking for clues, hints, anything… and you came up, among other things. So I thought…"

She nodded absentmindedly. _Of course._ Moriarty had been clever enough to tarnish everyone. Even the insignificant little mortuary girl. No one was safe from suspicion. The spider was dead, but his web still caught flies, entangling them, suffocating them with lies.

Realizing that he was expecting some sort of answer, Molly looked up at him, trying to sound comforting. "It's… alright. Well, not really, but… I understand. It must be difficult."

John shook his head. "Of course it's not alright. Look at the state of you… god, I don't know what's gotten into me."

She couldn't let him feel guilty. That would only make it worse. "Please don't blame yourself. It's only natural. You needed release, and, well… I'm used to being shouted at and threatened."

His brows knitted in confusion. "No, it's not right. You're the last person who deserves that kind of treatment."

It was like a punch to the gut, because she felt that she did deserve it. For deceiving him.

Molly looked about desperately, to find something to change the topic. Her eyes lingered on the boxes. "Why did you do this?"

His gaze followed hers. "Well, there was something Sherlock said. That there was a code hidden somewhere in the flat, a code Moriarty used to break into the Tower, and the Bank of England. So I thought… maybe I could find it and then…" – there was a violent spark in his eyes – "… then I would find Moriarty."

Revenge. This wasn't good at all. She needed to distract him. "So you broke Sherlock's stuff and threw his clothes around?"

Luckily, John didn't seem to mind the sarcasm. "I was angry! You see, I was going through the boxes and then I realized that Mrs Hudson had moved everything. So wherever the code was, I probably wouldn't find it anymore. And I was so worked up by then, I just.. lashed out."

"You gave her quite a fright. She was the one who called me."

He grimaced. "It's all such a mess. I'm a mess."

Molly took his hand. "That's what I'm here for. Let me help. No one should be going through this on their own."

He looked tired all of a sudden, and much older. "Suppose you're right. My therapist said the same."

"Well then, be a responsible patient and let me take care of you."

"No. I can't, I… I find it difficult to be around people. It's just frustrating. No one gives a damn. They all believe that Kitty Reilly person, that lying…" He clenched his fists.

"_I don't_."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"No." She looked him in the eye. "I believe in him. I always have."

The corners of his mouth jerked up, just a little. "Well, alright then."

"Are we good?"

"Yes, we're good."

John squeezed her hand, maybe in gratitude, maybe just in sympathy.

Molly followed him with her eyes as he made his way downstairs, to Mrs Hudson's flat, before slipping out quietly herself. She glanced at her watch. Damn. There would be no time for sleep anymore. But she had to get home all the same.

She felt like she was getting into something serious here, with long-term consequences. But she felt responsible. John was broken, and so was she, and maybe being broken together wasn't such a bad thing. She couldn't fix Sherlock, she was almost certain of that. Why not try to help John?

And then maybe, just maybe, she could fix two things at once.


End file.
